


Ginger Tea and Parsley Oil

by 0_yngve



Series: Aching Bones, Aching Hearts [6]
Category: Mumintroll | Moomins Series - Tove Jansson
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Autistic Snusmumriken | Snufkin, Chronic Illness, Chronic Pain, Congenital Disability, Congenital Illness, Disability, Disabled Character, Disabled Snusmumriken | Snufkin, Discussion of Abortion, Implied Sexual Content, Light Angst, Little My is Rude, M/M, Moomintroll is bad at math, Physical Disability, Smoking, Trans Male Character, Trans Pregnancy, Trans Snusmumriken | Snufkin, but shes also right, idiot plot, if anyone says mpreg ill throttle them, internalized ableism, it's referred to and spoken of very vaguely, some relationship troubles cause snufkin cant communicate for toffee but yk, speculative biology, technically theres an OC in this but like barely so whatever, this isnt a fetish thing im Licherally trans, weird eugenicsy thoughts when ur disabled and consider bio kids, yeah those
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-15
Updated: 2020-05-15
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:20:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24190474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/0_yngve/pseuds/0_yngve
Summary: Alone in the living room, Snufkin was free to breathe. He sipped at the tea in his paws.Expecting. A baby. A baby. A baby.Snufkin couldn’t have a baby. That was…A baby.Snufkin’s thoughts were struggling insects in amber.A baby.All that ran through his mind was cold panic.
Relationships: Lilla My | Little My & Snusmumriken | Snufkin, Muminmamman | Moominmamma & Snusmumriken | Snufkin, Mumintrollet | Moomintroll/Snusmumriken | Snufkin
Series: Aching Bones, Aching Hearts [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1688545
Comments: 6
Kudos: 63





	Ginger Tea and Parsley Oil

**Author's Note:**

> Oof uhhh okay I don't even know if I want to publish this. But I wrote 4.5k words in like four days and here we are. 
> 
> Blame Em for this.

Snufkin’s morning, as most of his mornings these days, began with intense nausea. It was getting worse and worse. Most days it was a faint murmur that only woke after he ate. But lately it was a roiling cauldron in his belly, keeping him from making the slightest motion.

Ginger tea would help. Hopefully.

Snufkin made his to Moominhouse.

A younger Snufkin would have felt guilty, that he was imposing on their idyllic life. But he knew he was welcome. Open door policy—he was always welcome.

All dining room chairs were piled up in the living room while Moominmamma swept the knotted pine floors.

“Hullo.”

Moominmamma looked up from her work, her green eyes sparkling. “Hello, Snufkin. It’s nice to see you.”

“You too.” Snufkin was already starting to feel better.

“Say,” the mumrik began, “could I make some ginger tea?”

Mamma paused her sweeping. “Stomach troubles again?”

“Persistent spot, it seems.” Snufkin made his way into the kitchen. “Would you like some?”

“Oh, no thank you, dear.”

Snufkin put the kettle on. “Would you like any help?” he called to Moominmamma from the kitchen.

“I’m almost done here. If you could help put the chairs back?”

“Certainly.”

One by one, the dining room was re-organized. Him and Mamma chatted idly, about the weather, about the garden, about Mrs. Fillyjonk’s last visit to Moominhouse.

The kettle whistled. Snufkin went back to the kitchen and steeped his tea. Ginger and lemongrass floated through the air. The flavor seeped into the tea like ink.

“Snufkin?”

He looked up from his mug.

“How long has your nausea lasted?”

“About fifteen years.” Snufkin smiled. He picked up his mug and came into the living room. “To this degree, maybe three weeks.”

Moominmamma hummed. “Anything else bothering you?”

Snufkin thought a moment. Normally when symptoms progressed or new ones came, he never gave it much mind. His body threw many curveballs at him and Snufkin had learned to take it in stride.

“I almost fell off the bridge the other day,” he recalled. "I had a dizzy spell.”

Moominmamma closed her eyes for a moment but said nothing. _Go on,_ she seemed to say.

“And I’ve been a lot more tired as of late—not the kind where you need sleep. The kind where you’re worn out after a long day even when the day isn’t long.”

Snufkin took a sip of his tea; he could already feel his stomach settling.

Moominmamma looked up at Snufkin. She held his eyes. “You’ll have to forgive my impudence, but is there any chance you’re expecting?”

Snufkin choked on his tea. Some of it came out of his nose, burning his nostrils. He wiped his face roughly with his sleeve, getting it wet. And he had just done laundry, too.

“Pardon?”

“Moomintroll is in the larder, should you wish to speak with him.” She stood up. “I have some gardening to do if you don’t mind, Snufkin.” Moominmamma mercifully excused herself with a small smile and sharp glint in her eye.

Snufkin tried to give her a smile back, but it was wet and limp.

Alone in the living room, Snufkin was free to breathe. He sipped at the tea in his paws.

Expecting. A baby. A baby. A baby.

Snufkin couldn’t have a baby. That was…

A baby.

Snufkin’s thoughts were struggling insects in amber.

A baby.

He needed to take a walk. He needed to step outside, get some fresh air, go fishing, watch the tide, play his harmonica—something.

But he couldn’t move. He could barely think. All that was running through his mind was cold panic.

This was impossible. This was impossible. This was impossible.

Yes, they had been… _intimate_ …in rare moments when they knew they would be completely alone. Him and Moomintroll had long discussions about it, talking about what was comfortable, what aggravated Snufkin’s pain, what they enjoyed. It was awkward and clumsy and inelegant and marvelous and Snufkin wouldn’t trade it for the world.

They had been careful, though. He never thought….

It wasn’t even the first time he’d had a scare like this. Never so far as to get it confirmed by a third party, but Snufkin knew his own body better than most.

It was the winter he forgot to leave a letter. He forgot to leave a letter. He didn’t think it mattered. But he found out it did. It really, really did.

Snufkin had stayed in Moominhouse for a while, watching over a child who didn’t care to be watched over by a vagabond. He wanted a proper family, with a sympathetic and doting mother and a real house—not some crippled teenager who lived in a tent and smoked like a chimney no matter how hard he tried to quit.

Snufkin wanted that family too. The Moomins had disappeared and he didn’t know if he’d ever see them again. They left without leaving a note.

Snufkin hated that he hated that.

He stayed in Moominhouse for a few weeks, and then left on his winter travels, not wanting to risk staying-sickness. So Snufkin packed his things and left: the thing he did best.

Right before the new year, Snufkin got caught in a Hemulic town, arrested—quite aggressively—for charges of loitering and camping without a permit. As if the land where he pitched his tent wasn’t shared by every creature on Earth! A kind Tulippen had bailed Snufkin out of jail after seeing the assault and allowed the mumrik to pitch his tent in his fields. Snufkin found company with him, that winter, for three weeks.

Snufkin didn’t know why he did it. Maybe he was lonely. Maybe he craved warmth in the dismal season. Maybe he was angry at Moomintroll for leaving without a goodbye. Maybe he was angry at himself for having done the same thing. Angry at himself for not telling Moomintroll how he felt already. Angry for missing his chance, for losing him forever.

But when the aftermath hit, Snufkin didn’t say a word. He just slipped into a witch’s shop and bought some black cohosh to take care of it; he went on his way, the Hemulic town and the Tulippen far behind him.

There was no question of what to do about that situation. Why was now so different?

Was it because he was younger? He was only 19 then. But he was only 26 now.

Was it because he was alone then? Maybe he didn’t feel the fear of disappointing those that knew. No-one found out his condition all those years ago—still no-one knew. This time it wasn’t a secret.

Or maybe it was because of Moomintroll. Maybe it was knowing he would have help, have support.

At least, he hoped he would.

If he kept it, and Moomintroll left, what would he do? Snufkin tried to imagine months of carrying a child on his own, of hiking with all his belongings strapped to his back and an infant in his shirt, of never having a moment that was his own anymore. Maybe it would be nice to still have a piece of him. Maybe it would hurt him even more. 

Footsteps thudded underneath Snufkin’s feet.

“Mamma?” A muffled voice called out below. “Sniff ate the last jar of persimmon jam.”

Moomintroll emerged from the cellar. They met eyes through the open kitchen door.

“Oh, hi Snufkin.” The troll smiled, so bright and warm.

Snufkin forced the words out of his mouth. “H-hullo.”

He needed to get away. He needed to get out of here. He needed to escape.

Snufkin stood up so fast he knocked his chair over. It clattered against the floor.

“Snufkin?”

Moomintroll’s voice faded as Snufkin ran.

* * *

Sparrows fluttered above. Cirrus clouds drifted lazily in the gray sky. Snufkin sat in the meadow to the west of Moominhouse, trying to take deep, even breaths, gagging on the sweet August air. Bile rose in his throat. His eyes stung. His jaw ached. His fingers twitched.

He could really go for a smoke right now.

Snufkin reached in his pocket for his tobacco and pipe but froze. It wouldn’t be good for the baby.

But why did that matter? It’s not like he would have made a good father anyway. Fathers were supposed to watch over their children, put food on the table, settle fussy infants, give sage advice. Fathers were supposed to _be there_.

Snufkin never did have much experience with fathers.

All Snufkin needed to do was go on a two-day trip south-east for some parsley oil and rue. He could even steal some angelica from the Witch’s garden. All of his troubles would be over then.

So why couldn’t he stand?

Even when he heard Moomintroll’s heavy footsteps and rapid breaths growing louder and louder, why couldn’t Snufkin stand?

“Snufkin!” Moomintroll was panting. “You frightened me.”

Snufkin didn’t look up. “Sorry.”

A light breeze wafted through the August air, carrying a touch of chill for the impending autumn.

Moomintroll sat down beside him. “You shouldn’t run off like that.”

Snufkin fought the climbing burn in his chest. “I know.”

Only a few bees flew around the flowers. They could sense the weather changing.

“Are you alright?”

“Just been ill as of late.”

Moomintroll flicked his tail over Snufkin’s. Neither said anything for a long time.

And then:

“Moomintroll, I’m expecting.”

Snufkin was ready for a lot of different reactions. Moomintroll yelling, getting angry, getting sad, him telling Snufkin to leave and never come back.

What Snufkin was not ready for was laughter.

“You—what?” Moomintroll’s words stuttered out between his guffaws.

Snufkin just stared. He didn’t know what else to do.

Moomintroll’s laughter started to quiet into chuckling. “You…” His eyes widened. “You’re expecting?”

Snufkin pursed his lips. “I’m expecting.”

“Like…a baby?”

“Yes, like a baby. That’s what ‘expecting’ means.”

“Well, I expect a lot of things! I expect Snorkmaiden to turn orange when she argues with her brother. I expect Pappa to be overdramatic. I expect Little My to always take the last cookie. I, uh, expect a lot of things.”

Moomintroll’s eyes softened. “You’re expecting.”

Silence fell between them again. It was much less relaxed.

Snufkin dared look at Moomintroll…

…who was trying and failing to hold back a smile.

Snufkin tore his eyes away.

“Oh.” It was so quiet Snufkin could barely hear it.

Snufkin tugged at his paws, picking at his fur.

Moomintroll paused a long time before speaking again: “How are you feeling about this?” 

Snufkin breathed out of his nose. “I don’t know.”

He laughed despite himself. “This isn’t even the first time this happened to me—I don’t know why I’m so surprised.”

“You—what?” The shock was plain on Moomintroll’s face.

“This has happened before?”

Snufkin didn’t look at Moomintroll. He didn’t think he could take it. “I… yeah.”

“When?”

Snufkin shook his head. “It was a long time ago, before we ever…. Yeah, it was a long time ago.”

Moomintroll nodded solemnly, clearly squashing whatever emotions that were running all through his head. What were they? Anger? Jealousy? Shame? Disgust?

“I, uh, took care of it, though,” Snufkin added.

“Oh.”

Snufkin let out a shaky breath. “I wasn’t ready.”

Moomintroll rested his paw on the Snufkin’s knee.

“I wasn’t ready to be a parent—I don’t know if…” Snufkin’s words grew clipped, bitter. “I wasn’t about to leave another mumrik kit alone in a foundling house.”

Moomintroll didn’t say anything. He just drew small circles in Snufkin’s knee with his furry thumb.

Snufkin’s nausea pooled up. He closed his eyes, forcing the acrid mess back down his throat.

Moomintroll clearly took notice. “Do you need to sit up?” The troll’s paws were ready to help.

Snufkin squeezed his eyes, shaking his head slightly as to not disturb the bile.

Oh….

Oh, no.

A realization dripped cold into Snufkin’s mind: if he went through with this, without a doubt, he was going to feel _awful_ the entire time. Snufkin knew what the process was like, with morning sickness and back pain and swollen feet; he had seen his mother go through it enough times. No matter how much Mymblemamma took it in stride, Snufkin knew it was a taxing, taxing experience. And labor! Snufkin had helped deliver a child once, allowing himself to be mistaken as a Mymble by the midwife in order to lend a hand to the poor Snork woman. There was so much screaming, so much crying, so much blood. And the baby, a round purple Snork, was so large. How did that woman do it? When it came out, all her pain seemed to melt away, replaced by love and joy at the sight of her child.

Her healthy child….

Her child had been healthy.

 _His_ might not.

“What if they come out like me?”

Moomintroll’s lip twitched, but he said nothing.

“What if they grow up in pain all the time? What if they can only eat a handful of foods and still get sick? What if their joints ache and tendons tear? What if they can’t stand for more than twenty minutes? What if they can’t function without spending a-a small fortune on doctors and medicines? What then?” Snufkin’s claws dug into his coat. “You and Moominmamma and my mother—you all keep saying what a wonderful and noble act it is to become a parent but it’s not! It’s painful and reckless and completely, completely selfish.”

Moomintroll paused for a moment, before speaking up. “Is it really so bad? To live like that?”

Snufkin opened his mouth. Closed it again.

Was it?

When he was younger, Snufkin wished for a cure to his ailments on every new moon, on every dandelion seed, on every stray eyelash. With every fiber of his being, he had ached and cried and begged to be fixed.

But now?

Snufkin didn’t know if he wanted a cure. He hated the pain and the sickness but… it was so integral to him that he didn’t know who he would be without it. Would he still love the stars if his pain-insomnia didn't kept him up at night? Would he still love the ocean if the water didn’t take the pressure off his joints? Would he still speak to birds if they hadn’t given him medicine when he injured himself? Would he still fight for the freedom of others if he didn’t experience how frightening it was to have it taken away himself?

But at the same time, did that mean he could subject a child to that same pain, that same sickness, that same vulnerability? How could he tell a child he forced into the world that their broken little body was _his_ fault?

Snufkin pinched the bridge of his nose, fighting another wave of nausea.

And how would he be able to care for a child? Or, heaven forbid, _children_ , if his Mymble genes had anything to say about it. Snufkin remembered his visits to his mother’s turtle house. There were so many children. She had 43 children, 28 in the house with the rest moved out or off at school to visit from time to time. And while Snufkin would sooner jump off a cliff than have children in the double digits, that did not mean a single baby would be easy. They would scream, cry, vomit, wet and poo themself…. And then they would be a toddler and run around all over the place and refuse to eat any foods and get hurt and wander off and—

Could Snufkin do that? Could he manage raising a child? Even with all the help in the world, would he be able?

Snufkin’s breath stuttered. “I won’t be able to hold them.” His voice was so quiet.

Moomintroll’s ear flicked.

“When my hands get bad. I won’t be able to hold them.”

A white paw reached out, slow.

“I wasn’t…. My father wasn’t….” Snufkin sighed. “I won’t be able to hold them.”

Moomintroll’s paw rested on Snufkin’s knee.

Snufkin’s voice broke. “I won’t be able to….”

Moomintroll twirled his velvety tail with Snufkin’s fluffy one and looked him in the eyes.

“When you can’t hold them, I will. And when they’re playing in the woods and you have a flare-up, I will watch them.”

Snufkin choked back a sob he didn’t realize was coming.

“When you can’t hold them, I will.”

Moomintroll drew slow circles in Snufkin’s knee with his thumb.

Snufkin tried to steady his breathing.

“Hey,” Moomintroll’s other paw twirled the hair behind Snufkin’s ear. Snufkin relaxed at the touch; the sensation grounded him.

“If we do this—and we don’t have to, but if we do—we won’t be alone.”

Snufkin tried to nod. His stiff neck creaked.

“And there’s time. We don’t have to decide right away.”

“No.” Snufkin shook his head. “If it’s a mumrik, the herbs only work for the first three months.”

“Oh,” Moomintroll hummed. “And, er, how much are…?”

“Ten weeks, I think.”

“So that’s….”

Oh, sweet Moomintroll was never the best at math.

“I…” Snufkin steeled himself. “I have two weeks.”

He swallowed.

“I have two weeks to decide the course of my entire life.”

Moomintroll frowned.

“Of _our_ lives,” the troll corrected.

“What?”

“You said ‘the course of _my_ entire life.’”

“Oh.”

“This doesn’t just concern you.” Moomintroll’s voice was growing sharper.

Snufkin snorted. “You wouldn’t be the one growing a person.”

“No, but I’d still be their father! Unless you were planning on taking off with them.”

“I might!” Snufkin snapped. “If you’re going to force yourself into this, I just might!” 

Moomintroll grabbed the mumrik’s wrist. “There are some things you can’t run away from, Snufkin.” His voice was stern but level.

Snufkin forced himself free. The words were out before he could stop himself. “And there are some things that aren’t about you!”

That was clearly the wrong thing to say.

“This isn’t about me?” Moomintroll was incredulous. “In what world is this not about me?”

“Moomintroll.”

“It takes two, you know. We’re both in this.”

“We’re not, though!” The birds that Snufkin had heard singing overhead had gone silent. He hated how loud his voice was getting. He knew it would only make things worse, but he couldn’t stop himself; the words kept rushing out of him. “I’m the person who would be extremely sick and in terrible pain for months on end. I’m the person who would end up having to give birth to nine babies and never travel again. Your life would keep going on the same trajectory as it always has been but mine? I’d be trapped!”

“You’d be trapped? Really, Snufkin? Thank you for telling me that I am completely stifling and have ruined your life.”

“That is not what I said!”

“Isn’t it?”

Snufkin felt pinned, exposed, like a collected butterfly under a plate of glass. And angry. He felt angry. Angry at his body for never co-operating with him, angry at himself for not being able to tolerate so much fuss, angry at this _thing_ inside of him for making him more trapped and more sick than ever, angry at Moomintroll for being too attached.

Angry at Moomintroll for being terribly, terribly right.

“I’m going fishing. I’ve barely eaten for days.”

“Of course you are.”

Snufkin turned and walked as quickly as he could without running, tongue and ears and eyes burning.

* * *

“This is usually good news, you know.” Little My’s voice popped out of nowhere, as it typically did. Of course she heard; he and Moomintroll were practically screaming at each other.

Snufkin kept his eyes on the bobber in his paws.

My continued. “A long-awaited gift, or at least happy accident.”

“You’re scaring away the fish.”

“You haven’t got your line cast.”

She continued, “I’m disappointed in myself, you know.” Little My circled around Snufkin. “That I didn’t realize.”

Snufkin grumbled.

“You do have a certain _glow_ about you.”

“Why don’t you go bother some-one else? Isn’t the mail-man coming today?”

Little My sighed. “No, he stopped coming last week. Coward.” She shook her head. “Besides, you’re much more fun.”

“More fun than the mail-man? You terrorize him so.”

“The mail-man didn’t go and get himself pregnant.”

“My!” Snufkin cringed at the language.

Little My shrugged, plopping down beside her brother.

“Oh, don’t clutch your pearls. We all know how you got in this situation.”

Snufkin focused hard on the bobber in his paws. “Don’t be so crass.” He fought redness climbing up his face.

“You’re so reluctant to acknowledge anything that falls below your mighty standard of decency.”

Snufkin grumbled. “I just like to keep my private matters _private_.”

“With that attitude, I’m surprised this hasn’t happened sooner. If you never talk about it, how’re you gonna know how to prevent it?”

“I know how to prevent it—it just clearly doesn’t always work.”

Little My rolled her eyes. “Counting days isn’t effective. No love without the glove, Snufkin.”

Snufkin’s paintbrush slipped, streaking his entire paw yellow. “I know that!” His face was most certainly bright red now.

My laughed. “Snippy, much?”

Snufkin wiped his messy paw on the grass beside him.

“You’re so moody anyway. This will make you downright unbearable!”

Snufkin decided that didn’t dignify a response. The bobber in his paws was finished, but he continued painting so he didn’t have to look at his sister.

Little My tore up some grass. “Can’t believe we won’t be able to have a proper conversation for two whole years,” she grumbled. “Sometimes you’re the only person who knows how to have any fun around here.”

Snufkin dropped the bobber, smearing paint all over his coat. “For how long?”

“Moomins take twenty months.”

Twenty months?!

“So, basically two years.” Little My’s toothy grin shined.

“Two years…” Snufkin’s thoughts slipped through his lips.

Well, maybe it wouldn’t be that long! This child would be part mumrik and part mymble, and they only carried for six months. So, it wouldn’t be two years—eight, maybe nine months, perhaps? Nothing longer, right?

“It’s not worth panicking over, Snufkin.”

“What?”

“You were spiraling.”

Oh.

Little My sighed. “It’ll last as long at it’ll last and there’s no use fussing over it before you know for sure.”

Snufkin took a deep breath. In. Out. He swallowed, focusing on the acidic sting on his tongue to keep from thinking too much.

Well, he tried to not think. He tried very hard not to think.

All he could do was think.

He threw up into the river. Little My rubbed his leg.

* * *

The night came, and then the day, and then night again, and all the while Snufkin was terribly ill. But he shoved his churning belly aside as he climbed up the rope ladder into Moomintroll’s room. The troll had been insistent that he was far too grown-up to dignify having a rope ladder, but he never took it down. Snufkin suspected that he liked the unexpected visits and invitations to the mumrik’s night-time adventures too much.

Snufkin hoped he wouldn’t mind this unexpected visit. He sucked in a deep breath and rapped his knuckled on the window.

Moomintroll was a light sleeper, and roused only after a few knocks.

Snufkin couldn’t read his expression as he lifted up the window and helped the mumrik inside. He braced himself for whatever may come.

“I’m sorry.” Snufkin trained his eyes to his feet. “This whole thing has me scared and I took it out on you and that’s not okay. I’m sorry.”

Moomintroll breathed. “Okay.”

“I shouldn’t have said what I said.”

“You shouldn’t have.”

Snufkin nodded. “I know.”

Moomintroll sat down on his bed. Snufkin tried not to think about the space between them.

Snufkin spoke up again. “You were right.”

He could feel Moomintroll’s eyes on him but kept his gaze forward. He wouldn’t be able to take it.

“I keep acting like it’s only me and it’s not.” He licked his lips. They were chapped. “If we have a kid, we’re both going to be parents and I shouldn’t have discounted you.”

Moomintroll hummed.

“Maybe it’s because I was on my own for so long, or that my father left me, or that I was alone last time this happened. But it doesn’t matter. What I said was mean and it was wrong. And so was running away.”

A slow breath out. “So, I’m sorry.”

Snufkin saw Moomintroll nod out of the corner of his eye.

“We need to be able to talk about these things.” Moomintroll’s voice was steady, strong, thankfully not short.

Snufkin swallowed. “I know.”

Moomintroll patted the sheets beside him. Snufkin sat down, careful to leave some space between them. Now wasn’t the time for warm embraces.

“We would both be the parents but it’s not my place to tell you what do right now. So you have to talk to me.” Moomintroll looked right at Snufkin. “I just want to know what you’re thinking.”

Acid crawled up into Snufkin’s mouth. He swallowed it back down and coughed. Moomintroll, seemingly automatically, reached his paw out a few inches away from his own.

“I don’t know what I’m thinking,” Snufkin admitted. “There’s a lot going on in my head and it’s all muddied together.” He shook his head before speaking up again:

“What do you want to do?”

Moomintroll shook his head. “That’s not my decision.”

“Pretend I don’t have any opinion.”

“But you must have one.”

“I want to hear what you think first, without my interfering.”

Moomintroll pursed his lips. “Are you sure?”

Snufkin nodded.

A deep breath. “I want to keep it.”

Snufkin closed his eyes, exhaling slowly.

Moomintroll reached out. “Are you ok—”

“I want to hear what you think.”

A few seconds of silence.

“Okay.” Moomintroll’s voice was quiet. “I’ve wanted kids for years, and I’m ready for it. And it wouldn’t be just us—we have Mamma and Pappa and Mymblemamma and Joxter and Too-ticky and Mymble and even Little My!” Moomintroll sighed. “And I know how good you are with children. They adore you—the woodies and Tuffe and Ninny and your little siblings—they all adore you!”

Moomintroll put his paw on Snufkin’s cheek, still taking delight after all these years in their round shape and acne scars and freckles. “You would make a good father, Snufkin.”

Snufkin tried to stop himself from leaning into Moomintroll’s touch. It was not successful.

“Okay.” Snufkin’s words were soft. “Thank you.” He brought his paw up on top of Moomintroll's. Breathed in the softness and soap.

Moomintroll broke their silence. “What are you thinking?”

Snufkin opened his eyes. “I don’t know.”

Moomintroll’s thumb rubbed Snufkin’s warm skin. “You don’t have to know yet.”

Snufkin hummed.

“We still have two weeks, right?”

“Yeah,” Snufkin murmured. “We do.”

**Author's Note:**

> Parsley oil, angelica, and rue are all abortifacients (agents that induce a miscarriage) and have been used for hundreds of thousands of years as such. In the late 19th and early 20th century drugs derived from these plants were sold as the solution to "uterine problems" with the side effect of miscarriage Very Prominently Labelled so that No One Would Risk It because abortion was illegal. But please Please do not use plants if you have access to medical help because in plant medicine it is very difficult to regulate dosages and these drugs can cause massive bleeding and permanent damage so don't do it. See a trusted medical professional and don't go to a "Women's Clinic" or anything with that sort of name as they are undercover pro-life "counseling" buildings. 
> 
> Follow me on tumblr @/smooth-goat for stuff that's not my writing I don't post about it there


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